


Thunder Road

by Enfilade



Series: Mend What is Broken [2]
Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Drinking Games, Drug Addiction, Emetophobia, Falling In Love, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Masturbation, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Robot Feels, Robots, Sexual Fantasy, Traumatic History, Unresolved Romantic Tension, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-16
Updated: 2013-11-27
Packaged: 2018-01-01 18:07:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,277
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1046971
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Enfilade/pseuds/Enfilade
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Drift likes to think he's been there and done that, but he has no idea what falling in love feels like.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Trade In these Wings on some Wheels

**Author's Note:**

> This story is a bridge between "In Repair" and "Forgiven," told from Drift's point of view.
> 
> So this came about while I was writing "Forgiven" and ran into a snag with being convinced by, and satisfied with, how I was writing Drift/Deadlock. I didn't know what he was going to do, or why, and it showed. "In Repair" was wholly from Ratchet's point of view so I had a good handle on him. I wrote this to get into Drift's head and figure out where he was coming from, what he was thinking. Using that I went back to Forgiven and the snag is now fixed :)
> 
> None of the following are depicted in the story but there's allusions to a history of: abuse, prostitution, and violence.
> 
> First chapter racy, second chapter fluffy.
> 
> Enjoy!

**Chapter One: Trade In These Wings On Some Wheels**  


_Roy Orbison sang for the lonely_  
 _Hey that’s me and I want you only_  
 _Don’t turn me home again_  
 _I just can’t face myself alone again…_

\--Bruce Springsteen, “Thunder Road”

  


_Deedle-deedle-dee._

Drift wasn’t ordinarily a deep sleeper. The strange alarm took longer than it should to rouse him from recharge. 

Automatically, he instructed his systems to check for signs of intoxication. It usually took Syk or circuit boosters to quiet the demons that kept him sleeping lightly with his swords in his hands.

Strangely enough, he seemed to be sober—but not alone. Drift felt the bulk of another mech moving under him in the dark. He was draped across a larger mechanism like an ornamental covering, and his hands were empty. Primus only knew where his guns were. Drift caught his breath, felt his intakes strain. Another systems check, as he propped himself up on his arms and struggled to keep his body language neutral until he figured out who he was in bed with this time.

Once again, his system reports came back absent of any red flags. No dents, no snapped struts or torn wires or fuel leaks. No tell-tale ache in his valve. He was intact, unharmed and his armour was still attached.

_Then who…_

Drift dared to inhale and smelled hospital: disinfectant and thick grease and enriched fuel. This wasn’t his berth or his room on the _Lost Light_ , which smelled of incense. And this wasn't like him to wind up in others' berths any longer. The trill of panic in his systems was smothered as he inhaled again and that soothing scent calmed his nerves. Many mechanisms said they hated the smell of hospital; they claimed it reminded them of death. Drift never understood how they could think that way. He’d smelled plenty of death in his lifetime. Death smelled like battlefields and back alleys, spilled energon in the rain and the mud of the trenches…or the dirt of the gutters. 

Drift loved the smell of hospital. It made him feel safe. It told him someone was taking care of him.

The mech next to him sat up and fumbled for the beeping pager. “Pharma?” came a gravelly but shaky voice from the dark. “That your pager or mine?”

That solved the mystery of who he was with, and whose berth he was in. He was shocked to find himself in such an intimate situation with Ratchet of all mechanisms, and yet there was an uncanny _rightness_ about it, as though it were not only natural, but inevitable, that things had come to this.

“Yours, Ratch,” Drift said softly, realizing only after he’d spoken that he’d shortened Ratchet’s name, presuming a familiarity they didn’t really have. He held his breath again, waiting for a reprimand, wondering if Ratchet would be upset, or angry, or disappointed that he wasn’t Pharma.

Primus, just when he thought he couldn’t hate the former Delphi Medical Officer more than he already did.

Ratchet’s optics came online; the soft blue glow lit the planes of the medic’s face. They looked at one another and time seemed to stop. Ratchet’s expression was utterly inscrutable, and Drift had no idea what he was thinking. “Ratch,” he said again, his voice raspy as he slid his body free of Ratchet’s. “Ratch, you have to go.”

_Go help your patients. Go give me time to figure out what in the Pit is happening here._

Because Drift felt…strange. Not drugged, not sick exactly, but his engines were definitely running hot. His frame felt shaky, as though he’d spent the last few days in combat and was now coming down off the battle high. Drift couldn’t pinpoint what was wrong in the short time it took Ratchet to answer his call, give directions and start thinking how to repair the inbound casualty. Drift barely heard what it was—something about Sunstreaker and an arrow. 

Ratchet ended the call and got out of the berth. Cold air hit Drift like a physical blow, almost causing him to gasp. It felt as though something had been ripped away from him, and the loss now ached all along his body. He stared up at Ratchet, and Ratchet looked down at him, and Drift realized he could not beg the doctor to cure this mysterious but likely minor set of symptoms now. 

…Or to caress him again. Dear Primus. Thinking about the evening’s events sent a shiver up Drift’s struts, and the urge to grab Ratchet and haul him back into the berth flashed across his processor.

Instead, he feigned a casual shrug. “Go save the day, Ratch. I’ll be around.”

What he meant, of course, was that he’d be on his way the second Ratchet walked through the connecting door between this suite and the med bay. Drift gritted his jaw, but he knew how this game was played. Give a mech his good time, and then get out.

Though this time it had been Drift who’d come to Ratchet with a request. Did that make any difference?

Likely not. He _had_ managed to give Ratchet as good as Ratchet had given him, and that meant Ratchet didn’t need Drift here any more.

Ratchet turned away, and Drift was in the process of resigning himself to either a boring night in his hab suite—he doubted he’d be able to mediate tonight any more—or an awkward night on the bridge fending off Rodimus. The captain had always been flirty, but it was getting worse lately. Or maybe it was that Drift had lately stopped feeling flattered and started feeling annoyed by it. Drift should probably just get it over with and let Rodimus frag him already.

…Previously the idea had been tiresome, but now…now it actively left a sour taste in Drift’s mouth. What was this?

…What was _this?_

Drift squeaked as a covering settled around his shoulders. Ratchet tucked in the blanket tarp with quick, practiced hands; then he nodded in satisfaction before exiting via the door that connected directly to the med bay. 

Drift found himself curled up in Ratchet’s berth, warm under the tarp. It took off some of the chill edge he’d felt when Ratchet had gotten up. Drift nuzzled his face into the berth and breathed in the scent of hospital and Ratchet.

His internal temperature spiked.

Drift rubbed his cheek against the berth. He felt comforted and uncomfortable at the same time. Safe, warm, looked after…unpleasantly hot. Drift fidgeted, seeking relief from this strange sensation. He rolled over, and when his thighs rubbed together he felt a rewarding tingle that vanished the second he settled on his back. He sent his hand down under the blanket in search of the anomaly, patted around, felt the delightful sensation return—and realized he was pressing on his armour, right in the vicinity of his valve.

Drift yanked away his hand as though the heat had scalded him. It might as well have. He was embarrassed, shocked…and worse, his body was punishing him for taking the lovely pressure away. His valve was aching now, and his cable was getting in on the action, throbbing for attention. 

Thankfully Ratchet was going to be gone for a while, and as long as Drift was inside Ratchet’s quarters he didn’t have to worry about running into some other mech while he was all heated up like this. Best to stay put and wait for these sensations to go away.

Drift lay on his back under the blanket and tried to remember some of the mantras he’d learned in Crystal City. _We are our sparks, and our bodies are but vessels. We are energy: from the Allspark we arise, to the Allspark we return, and this world we see before our optics, but temporary, and illusion._

For once, the meditation wasn’t working. At all. Drift remembered how he’d ranted at Wing and made fun of his oath of celibacy. Now he wondered how in the Pit Wing had kept that oath without losing his mind. Driftwas so hot it damn well _hurt_ and he didn’t even _like_ interfacing.

…Well, that might not be entirely true. There were some things he liked about interfacing. He knew he was good at it, and there was always satisfaction to be taken in a job well done. He liked the praise of his partners. He liked being wanted. Needed. Desired. 

…The act itself didn’t do a lot for him, but the payoff was worth it.

And ever since he'd figured out the one thing that could overload him every time--his secret, private trigger--he had it made. Wait till the right time, think of the trigger and let his partner think it was his doing that made Drift howl in release.

There was, of course, an easy solution to Drift's current frustration. He’d get out of here, stop by his own hab suite, polish up a bit and hit Swerve’s. Drift was certain he still knew how to pick up—not that it would be all that difficult, particularly not while the _Lost Light_ was in orbit around Hedonia and her crew was in a mood to party. He knew that so many of the mechs who gave him dirty looks to his face liked to check out his aft behind his back. You didn’t need to like someone to want to frag them through a berth. Getting interfaced on the _Lost Light_ wouldn’t be hard at all…

…except for the sudden, powerful urge to void up his fuel tanks all over the floor.

Drift clapped his hand over his mouth as he fought back the nausea. What was wrong with him? Maybe he really was sick. With a history like his, one more frag was practically meaningless.

His insides roiled angrily.

Slag, slag…he’d have fragged Ratchet if the doc had asked. Would that have made him ill too?

Drift’s fuel tank quieted right down at the thought of taking it from Ratchet. Unfortunately, his fans kicked on, his valve twitched attentively and a terrible ache started up in his spark cavity.

_Oh no._

_I’m not just hot, I’m hot for Ratchet._

Ratchet specifically. Ratchet only. Drift kicked off the blanket, got up and paced the hab suite in agitation, trying not to trip over the boxes and piles of clutter littering Ratchet’s room. It had been a long time since he felt _this_ …the sensation took him back to Rodion when he was still young enough and dumb enough to be curious about romance, to wonder whether there was a difference between making love and just getting fragged.

What was he going to do now? 

_Ratchet doesn’t even like me._

_Ratchet doesn’t need to like you, stupid. See earlier: someone who hates you might enjoy bending you over his desk best of all._

_Except Ratchet is celibate. And has or had a thing for Pharma._

_Yeah, and that’s what they said about how many of your customers in the Dead End?_

Drift bit his lip, listening to the voices in his head argue. Part of him was shocked that he and Ratchet had kept their armour on all night and another part of him remembered what they’d managed to do despite it. Drift had seen and done a lot of kinky things in his time, but he’d never imagined there was truth to the stories that touch alone could bring a mechanism to screaming overload. He shivered, remembering how good that had felt…

 _…what if Ratchet touched me like that while he_ _was ‘facing me?_

Drift shuddered, staggered, fell to his knees. 

It felt like withdrawal, like the darkest, deepest throes of a Syk craving, where the need made Drift ready to crawl out of his own skin, to lick the filthiest gutter if it would provide only a second’s respite. But Drift had no phantom flavor of Syk in his throat, no wish for the world to shatter into a kaleidoscope as the euphoria messed with his optics and gyros. All he wanted was Ratchet – soft touch and skilled hands and the scent of hospital, warm plates under him, gravelly voice whispering in his audio, murmuring his name…

He wanted Ratchet so badly it hurt.

For all the pain that Drift could take, he’d never learned to enjoy it. His hand slid furtively down his frame, seeking for the clasps to his armour. He gasped in sudden relief as the plate fell open, giving his cable the space it needed to thicken, exposing his valve to the cooler air outside the overheated armour.

He swore he could even feel the little port up inside his valve give an anticipatory twitch—surely the Crystal City medics had put a guard on that thing? Drift honestly had no idea. His rebuild had been extensive and he’d, well, he’d never tried out the new equipment. 

And what an awkward place for a test drive.

He should go back to his quarters and lock himself in. That was the smart thing to do. He was in the process of picking up his swords when a thought occurred to him.

Ratchet had tucked him in. The Chief Medical Officer wouldn’t have done that if he’d expected Drift to leave. That had to mean…had to mean Ratchet wanted Drift to stay.

Drift left the Great Sword where it was, leaning against the wall. He stumbled his way back to the berth, leaving his two shorter blades, and his command officer pager, lying on the floor next to Ratchet’s bunk. He crept back into bed, feeling hot and strange and wishing Ratchet were here to make sense of what was happening to him. Wondering if interface might be different, with Ratchet.

_Sweet touch…_

Drift grasped the tarp and eased himself onto his back, trembling as he brought the tarp back over himself until it brushed his cheeks. He inhaled hospital and Ratchet, felt the warmth settle around him, and realized he was lying with his legs spread, ready to be ‘faced. 

Whimpering, Drift slid his hand under the tarp, over his waist and down. His fingers traced their way over his armour, sweet pressure that could not even begin to satisfy—it only heightened his craving. Drift bit his lip as he gave in at last and snapped his codpiece free. 

His cable sprang to escape, as though in relief at being freed, but it was his valve that commanded his attention. His armour was moist with lubricant; he could feel the wetness on his upper thighs. What was this? Drift gritted his teeth, shifted uncomfortably. What was his body doing to him?

His intention was to set his armoured codpiece aside, somewhere he could grab it and reattach it quickly if Ratchet returned. He grasped the armour and moved it out of the way, but as he did so his wrist grazed his thigh and his valve throbbed with an insistent pulse he could not ignore. His hand shook as he placed the armour to one side and let his fingers creep back to where they were wanted. 

No, he could not deny he wanted this.

Drift dimmed his optics, let his index finger trace his valve and thought, _Ratchet…_

His touch was nothing like Ratchet’s. He was not blessed with a medic’s hands. But Primus, the notion that there was something better than this made his fuel pump skip. He traced the lip of his engorged valve and wondered what was happening to him, how he could possibly want… _crave…_

His other hand slid across his thigh. He let it wrap around his cable, in a motion that was comforting in its familiarity. This was something he did on occasion when his fans were running hot. It felt good, just as it always felt. He knew how he liked to be touched, how it would feel, what would happen each step of the way to relief. This was pleasure without a cost; release without obligation. 

Yet he could not leave his valve alone.

Even as he began the usual long, slow strokes on his cable—priming it for what was to come—Drift could not resist sliding his finger over his valve cover, stroking it. He felt it spiral open, apparently agreeable, unwilling to wait for him to dig his fingers into the release and force it wide. His cable stiffened, intrigued.

Drift curled his fingers around his cable and, with his other hand, pressed experimentally on the center of his valve.

It gave. Not a lot, but a little—just enough to send a pulse of sensation through his body. As with touching himself through his armour, it was pleasant and not nearly pleasant enough. But it was also frightening…disgusting, even. Drift didn’t like that. Didn’t want it.

Except now he did.

_Ratchet._

Drift pushed a little harder, winced when it hurt. Damn Wing and his Crystal City and the far too thorough rebuild they’d provided him after his beating. Did they have to rebuild _that_? His valve might have been somewhat damaged, a bit stretched from hard use, but it was _functional_. _Practical_. But oh no, not up to standard, couldn’t have that in the perfect city. Replaced, with factory parts, brand new.

What the hell good was it to him now?

Drift had learned to take pain, but never to enjoy it.

Still…

Drift lifted his fingers to his lips, ran his glossa over the pads, all the while thinking of Ratchet, of the magic in his touch. He moved the wet fingers down under the blanket swiftly, careful not to squander the moisture, until he could touch….there…

Ohhhh.

Yes, like that. That would be so good…so wet, slipping easily…sliding in deep, deeper…

Drift imagined Ratchet’s deep growl. _Like that, kid…harder…work your hips for me..._ His fingers slid deeper into the moist valve until a sudden ribbon of pain seared across his consciousness and his fantasy evaporated.

_Any deeper and I break the seal._

It hurt. It felt tender already. Drift retreated, unwilling to push it any farther, not when he had the promise of release closer at hand.

He left two fingers in his valve—right near the opening, where there was no pain—and turned his attention to his cable, and revised his fantasy ever so slightly….

_…harder, kid, I can take it…give it to me deep…_

Drift gritted his jaw as his pace accelerated. Part of him doubted that Ratchet would ever order…well, _that_ …but his will suspended his disbelief long enough, just long enough…oh, and if the Chief Medical Officer would only do that thing with his hands, Drift didn’t care what was in where, if only he’d….

… _please_ …

Mewling, Drift’s whole frame shook in a merciless overload. 

Drift wasn’t sure how long he trembled, caught in the teeth of relentless pleasure. He was brought back to himself by a sudden sharp pulse in his valve. He withdrew the offending fingers, moist with lubricant, feeling the aching throb they left behind—even without breaking his seals, he’d managed to bruise himself. Wonderful. Meanwhile, his cord was tender and abraded and who wanted to bet his overload had left scorch marks or something else glaringly obvious to a medical professional? Drift breathed deep, trying to ascertain if the whole room really smelled of ozone or if he was just imagining it. 

Ratchet probably knew who self-overloaded in the repair bay on any given occasion. He probably snickered about it with First Aid and Ambulon when no one else was around.

Drift groaned.

He felt used and dirty, which was unique only in that there was no one else to blame it on here in Ratchet’s quarters. No, now he’d gone so low as to _self-abuse_. And he had no doubt that if Ratchet came through that door and expressed interest in a go, he’d be game for whatever Ratchet wanted, anywhere, any time, any position.

_Once a buymech, always a buymech._

Drift folded his arms behind his head and looked up at the ceiling, wondering how much of his past Ratchet had deciphered. Probably a lot, given his condition in Rodion and Ratchet’s thorough examination and his awkward, embarrassing attempt to proposition Ratchet in a display of gratitude the morning after. He wondered if there was any use in feeling shame. Perhaps he’d put his time to better use wondering how to rephrase the offer in a way that would make Ratchet say yes.

His body, at least, was sated for the time being. Drift tried not to think of Ratchet’s touch, Ratchet’s voice, Ratchet’s body against his—any of the things that would get his fans spinning again—and thought instead of how to make his pitch. _So I’ve heard medics are kinky…I don’t care._

Perhaps not the best tack to take.

How about something more casual? _Doing anything tomorrow?_ No, too general. Ratchet’s answer would probably be _working_.

Maybe _hey, my engine is running a little hot, think you could take a look at it?_ It shouldn’t take a medical degree to figure out why…or what to do about it.

Satisfied, with a hopeful smile on his lips, Drift managed to stay awake just long enough to clip his armour back into place before he fell asleep.


	2. Case the Promised Land

Chapter Two: Case the Promised Land

_Well, I'm no hero, that's understood  
All the redemption I can offer…is beneath this dirty hood…_

\--Bruce Springsteen, “Thunder Road”

  


Drift, surprisingly, slept deeply. Scents of hospital…scents of Ratchet…even his own hab suite didn’t feel this safe.

The sound of the door sliding open, though, triggered reflexes honed into razor precision by a life on the streets. Reflexes that had served him well in the Decepticon army. By the time the door was fully open, Drift was awake, had snagged the sword he’d left next to the bed, and was holding it at the ready, prepared to block any shot the stranger in the door might fire. In a moment more, Drift would have his feet under him, and be ready to demand the intruder justify his reasons for disturbing Drift’s sleep.

Instead, the newcomer took a step backwards. “Drift?” it asked cautiously.

“Ratchet.” Suddenly the sword in Drift’s hands became an acute embarrassment. He’d just about attacked the last living mech who’d bothered to take care of him. 

The same mech he’d imagined….

Drift shoved those thoughts out of his head before he could get any more humiliated. “Um.”

“Can I go to sleep now, or will I get stabbed?” Ratchet was his old acerbic self, and Drift hung his head, ashamed. He dropped his sword over the edge of the berth, trying to remove the offending weapon from Ratchet’s sight, knowing the next order would be to get the hell out.

“I’m gonna have to memorize your gait,” Drift mumbled, “so I know it’s you next time.” It was explanation and apology and desperate plea to let him stay, all in one. His fingers gripped the corner of the tarp.

Ratchet walked over, took the tarp from Drift’s hand, and wordlessly pulled it over himself as he lay down. 

Shocked, Drift dared ease himself down as well, and found himself facing the far side of the bed where he’d dropped the sword. Ratchet’s chest pressed against his back, and a moment later, Ratchet’s arm draped around his waist.

If Ratchet knew what Drift had gotten up to during his absence, he didn’t mention it.

Drift’s engine purred with contentment; his whole body sagged with relief. He wasn’t getting rejected, thrown out, cast aside. He could stay a little while longer, in this place that smelled like hospital and Ratchet and safety.

Drift breathed in deeply through his intakes, and as his systems returned to recharge, one last thought passed through his mind:

_…in this place that smells like happiness._

*

_Deedle-deedle-dee._

Drift’s optics activated shortly after the noise began. His first thought was that he was high on Syk and his second thought was that he was perfectly sober, just secure and contented. Funny how safe and happy felt like being drugged; he had to work to summon up any urge to move. He’d rather just stay here and watch Ratchet talk into his comm link and hope that someone else could handle whatever-it-was. It was so good to curl up in the warm spot Ratchet had left, under the tarp cover that had his scent in it.

Sadly, it turned out that Ambulon was injured and First Aid intoxicated; the two junior medics had enjoyed a bit too much fun on their night out. Ratchet was going to have to deal with it, and he didn’t look happy as he climbed out of bed and straightened the tarp around Drift’s shoulders.

“This is the life of a medic, kid,” he huffed. “Better get used to it.”

Then he ran for the door, and Drift watched him go, admiring and proud and more than a little confused. 

Was this really the reason medics kept to their own kind? Were there so many mechs who felt that being woken up by pagers, or being left on their own for a while while their partner tended the wounded, were relationship dealbreakers? Drift thought Ratchet was…kind of dashing, really, tearing off to the medbay to wage war on pain or even Death Itself. All Drift was in comparison was a gutter punk who had a bit of talent with weaponry.

No, Drift was going to stay as long and as close as Ratchet would let him. 

It occurred to him, as he cuddled into the tarp, that he ought to be frightened. Something was happening that was far scarier than his unwanted, unexpected desire. Ratchet had a hook in his spark, and he could tear it right out if he took the mind to.

Yet Drift was not afraid.

He would trust Ratchet with anything.

Dimming his optics, he cast his consciousness over the ledge into dream.

*

In his sleep, he heard Ratchet returning, and a drowsy smile graced his features. When the door slid open, and a voice announced, “It’s me, Ratchet,” Drift knew he had not been dreaming. He waited for Ratchet to join him, but after a few moments, he forced his optics to light long enough to see what was happening.

Ratchet stood beside the berth, watching him, appearing strangely hesitant. Drift tugged one side of the tarp free of the cocoon he’d wrapped around himself and offered it to Ratchet, spreading his arms wide, offering—perhaps—more than just a covering.

And Ratchet fell into his arms, and Drift felt his spark leap with joy as the medic crushed him to his chest, and Drift clung to him, engines purring, reveling in the warmth of his body. 

A notion wandered through his thoughts—was this what life was like for Chromedome and Rewind? Was this how it felt when…

But there would be plenty of time tomorrow to consider those thoughts. Tonight, Drift would live in the moment.

*

DEE-DEE-DEE-DEE.

Ratchet did not sound happy as he sat up, threw back the tarp and grabbed his pager. “Ratchet here,” he practically snarled; then did a double take as he peered at the inactive communicator.

Drift allowed himself a private smile as he leaned over the side of the berth, fishing for the object he’d left next to his sword. He was third-in-command; he had to stay in contact with Rodimus and Ultra Magnus. What had happened to require a call in the middle of the sleep cycle? “Slag, it’s mine,” he grumbled, just to let Ratchet know what was happening, and vent some of his frustration with the interruption. Responsibility sucked. Drift grabbed the device, checked the caller—Rodimus—and activated the comm link. “Drift here.”

“Drift? Where are you? Never mind, come on up to the bridge, I’m taking a look at the Matrix map and want your insight. Maybe you can chant in Neo-Primalist or something.”

Ordinarily, Drift liked getting these kind of calls. Rodimus missed him—needed him—wanted him around. Right now, though, his thigh was pressed against Ratchet’s and he’d really rather keep it that way—or maybe see if Ratchet’s rule about armour staying on could be bent just a little. 

“What?” Drift demanded incredulously. “Can’t this wait till morning?”

“It is morning, or close enough, and I’ve ordered the Lost Light out of orbit, and I would like to set in our course before I go to recharge, because unlike _some_ mechanisms I’ve been _on duty_ all night.”

Drift almost felt sorry for him, He knew Rodimus would’ve liked cutting loose on Hedonia. Still, where in the Pit was Ultra Magnus? 

A finger poked him in the back. Drift turned his head to look at Ratchet as Rodimus continued, “Anyway, I need you up here. We’ll set course and then I’ll give you command of the ship while I go catch some sleep.”

Ratchet caught Drift’s optic and pointed wordlessly at the chronometer.

It was early. Hideously so. But it was, technically, morning.

Ratchet looked miserable. Drift felt his own face falling. He really didn’t want to go. He knew that Ratchet would understand— _this is the life of a command officer, better get used to it_ —but what they had here was so fragile, so uncertain. Drift felt a twist of fear spear through his processor as he rose reluctantly to his feet and replied to Rodimus. “Yeah, okay, see you on the bridge in ten minutes.” He could make it in five. Three if he used his alt mode and Magnus didn’t catch him speeding in the corridors. It was all the time he could buy to make things right before he had to go.

Ratchet sat up in the berth, and Drift could read the question on his face. “Rodimus,” he said, hoping Ratchet understood that this was work, that he’d never leave for anything else.

Ratchet’s expression darkened in the instant before he turned his face away.

Drift scooped up his swords, clipped them to his hips, and crossed the room slowly to the med bay door where the Great Sword leaned against the wall. He felt as though he were moving in slow motion as he gripped the weapon and slid it into place on his back. The whole time he waited for Ratchet to do something—talk to him, touch his arm, follow him, _anything_ —but Ratchet never moved at all. He just sat there, letting Drift leave, and Drift wasn’t certain if this silence was support or abandonment.

At last, Drift turned back to Ratchet, thinking about how this night had given him so much more than he’d dared to ask for and so much less than he really wanted. His lips curved upward in a sad smile, for having been given enough to miss it now that it was over. “Thank you.”

Ratchet, sitting so still—almost frozen—slowly raised his arm, gave Drift a parting wave.

Drift wasn’t used to Ratchet of all people acting so passively, and he was on the verge of asking Ratchet if he was all right when his pager buzzed again.

_Damn it, Rodimus!_

Drift stalked out, and as the hab suite door slid closed behind him, he slipped through the med bay—past a dozing First Aid and a doped-up Ambulon—and out into the hall, where he transformed and gunned his engine, heading for the bridge.  
  
*

One week.

That’s how long Drift had been spending his spare time loitering in the hallway heading to the medbay. Drift swore that the lights and the doorframes and even the rivets on the floor would all meet or surpass Ultra Magnus’ standards. He’d spent the past week obsessively examining and repairing every inch of the hallway in order to justify his presence here.

And in all that time, not so much as a glimpse of Ratchet. Ambulon had told Drift that he was working too hard on the hallway maintenance. First Aid had asked him if he needed medical help, and encouraged him not to let embarrassment stand in his way—the mech probably thought he had a virus or something and was trying to summon up the courage to enter the medbay and ask for assistance. Ratchet…Drift heard his voice a few times, and hated himself for feeling so warm and yet so discarded at the same time.

And that was it. No messages on the comm. No “hello” in the halls. Definitely not a house call to Drift’s hab suite, like he’d been daydreaming about since Hedonia. 

_Face it, Drift, you got dumped._

_If you can even get dumped after a one-night stand._

He’d never asked anything of Ratchet other than a few caresses. Ratchet had promised him nothing at all in return. 

So when had he started to believe…to feel…to hope something special had happened between them?

 _I’m an idiot_ , he thought as he made his way to Rodimus’ office.

He was supposed to be coaching the captain on his sword forms. Drift had not been doing such a great job of it this past week. Rodimus wasn’t practicing, and his forms were getting sloppy, and Drift could not find it in his spark to care. Not when he’d rather obsess about Ratchet and think back, trying to figure out if it had been something he’d done, or not done; if there was a way to get Ratchet’s attention now, or if he should try to forget about it; if he should find someone else to provide a distraction or…

Rodimus stumbled accidentally on purpose for the third time and leaned hard on Drift, his chest to Drift’s back, his pelvic armour pressed against Drift’s, his breath hot on Drift’s finials. Drift shrugged him off, irritated. 

“I think that’s enough for today,” Drift growled.

Rodimus was all wide-eyed innocence. “But I’m really having trouble with this move.”

“Then put in a few hours of practice and we can go over it next time.” He plucked his blades from Rodimus’ hands and returned them to his scabbards. “There’s no point in just pushing when something’s obviously not working.”

“I’m not a quitter,” Rodimus retorted, either utterly oblivious to the double meaning in Drift’s words, or else outright refuting them.

Drift bowed. “Captain,” he said, and left hurriedly, before Rodimus sucked him into an argument and took up any more of his time.

The door of Rodimus’ office slid open, but an unexpected savior emerged from the bridge: Ultra Magnus. Drift hastened past, hearing a few snatches of conversation: Magnus approaching Rodimus, Rodimus protesting, Magnus insisting. Saved by the Duly Appointed Enforcer of the Tyrest Accord.

Still, Drift didn’t want to linger in the hallways where Rodimus could find him. He ducked into Swerve’s in search of refuge. Drift wasn’t much of a drinker—the Circle of Light frowned on excessive consumption of intoxicants, and they were correct in that it was easier to make sound decisions while sober—but the opportunity to lose himself in the crowd was too good to pass up, and perhaps it would be to his benefit to find someone to talk to. Maybe he could even convince his thoughts to think about something other than Ratchet.

“We’re playing Truth or Drink,” Powerglide informed him as he walked through the door of Swerve’s. 

Drift groaned. He really didn’t like talking about his past; for a moment, he wondered if Rodimus might be the lesser of two evils.

Powerglide smirked. “Question of the Evening is: Who’s the last mech you interfaced with?”

_Oh, slag me in the smelting pools._

Drift briefly considered lying, but that would be very un-Autobot of him—a flagrant act of disrespect to everyone who played the game fairly. He was better than that now. He was.

Drift guessed that his dismay must have shown on his face, because Powerglide grinned slyly and said, “If you don’t want the answer being public knowledge, there’s the door and I’ll forget I saw you.”

Drift would have taken him up on that offer had he not caught sight of a familiar red helm and white chevron at a table near the bar. Drift’s breath caught in his intakes; he could almost feel those hands on his frame again. 

Go sit next to Ratchet, or bolt for the other side of the room? 

And scrap, what if Ratchet heard Drift’s reply?

Swerve was working his way around the room with a megaphone, and he hadn’t gotten to Ratchet yet. Drift’s keen optics lit on Pipes, talking with Xaaron in the corner, and Drift knew that Ratchet would not be answering the Question tonight.

“What happens if you don’t answer?” Drift asked nervously.

“Same as always,” Powerglide sneered, “you drink the evening’s special blend, and I would not recommend it. Swerve let Whirl mix something he calls the Drink of Doom. And between you and me, I heard that Whirl made some special purchases while he was on Hedonia.”

“Like what?” Drift asked, his tanks churning in dismay.

“Who knows?” Powerglide said. “You want to find out?” Powerglide looked at him as though the only thing better than finding out Drift’s juicy secrets would be watching him half-kill himself with Whirl’s Drink of Doom.

_Frag you, Powerglide. I took a circuit booster in the head and lived to tell about it. I’m not afraid of you or Whirl’s stupid drink._

He might be a little afraid of someone finding out his answer to the Question of the Evening, but he was more afraid for Ratchet.

Drift crossed the floor, wondering if he was a sucker for a mech who’d been ignoring him all week, and still regretting nothing. Swerve halted in front of Ratchet, and Drift heard the medic’s answer: “Hit me.”

Skids made a face. “You sure?” he asked as he poured a drink from a toxic-looking pitcher that glowed a vile magenta colour. “Whirl’s been giggling over this thing all night.”

The crowd began booing and catcalling, as they usually did when a mech chose Drink over Truth, and it sent a spear of rage straight through Drift’s systems. He felt his old combat reflex kicking in, and he had to fight to keep control when his hands itched for the hilts of his blades and he could practically _taste_ spilled energon, hear the gasped apologies to Ratchet and pleas for mercy…

“Hey, hey, shut up!” Drift called out, shoving through the crowd to get to Ratchet, a little more roughly than necessary. The physical release felt good and he struggled to rein in his own desire to follow up a push with a punch—or a slash with his swords. “You loudmouths ought to consider that maybe our Chief Medical Officer isn’t scared,” he announced as heads turned his way. Drift came to a stop next to Ratchet. “Maybe he’s too much of a gentlemech to kiss and tell.” Drift placed a hand over his fuel pump dramatically and declared, “He should be an example to us all.”

Ratchet glowered, but Drift wasn’t about to stop now. “So, to that end, I will follow Ratchet’s shining example.” He casually dropped into the chair next to Ratchet with an ease that was entirely false; the glow coming from the pitcher was somehow familiar, and Drift found himself feeling both nervous and unreasonably reckless at the same time. 

“Hit me,” Drift said.

“Your funeral,” Skids said dubiously as he poured the beverage. As if anything in that pitcher equaled the kind of stuff he’d drank—and snorted and shot into his fuel lines and worse, back in the Dead End.

Drift lifted the glass and shot Ratchet a grin that only deepened the scowl on the medic’s lips. “Cheers,” Drift said, and downed the whole thing in one smooth shot. Ratchet looked like he was about to choke as he guzzled his drink before he could gag it back up again. 

It didn’t taste great, but Drift had consumed far worse. It didn’t feel that bad either...it might be a bit strong, but maybe it was just that Drift so rarely consumed intoxicating beverages any longer. They hadn’t had any in New Crystal City, and it wasn’t smart for a mech with an addictive personality to overindulge with intoxicants. 

Drift stared defiantly at Swerve and Skids and even Whirl behind the bar, and he kept watching them until they turned away, continuing on their way, seeking their fun elsewhere. It seemed as though he sat there for a long time, keeping his killer’s urges in check, half-hoping someone would come over here and give him an excuse to let his anger out. Slowly, gradually, the fury ebbed away, replaced by a strangely merciful emptiness.

Drift felt a weight on his shoulder. He looked over, surprised.

Ratchet. 

_Ratchet’s cuddling me._

And the emptiness inside him began to fill with warmth.

Hell, maybe Drift owed Whirl some gratitude. He wrapped his arm around Ratchet’s shoulders and decided that this was a pretty damned nice way to spend an evening. At some point, though, they really ought to get out of Swerve’s – maybe go up to the viewing deck, lie on their backs and watch the stars. The stars were always so pretty when you were juiced up on…

 _Syk_ , Drift thought, as his happy fantasy crashed to the ground and the cold tendrils of fear began wrapping their way up his spinal strut. _Whirl spiked the drinks with Syk._

The stuff was probably already messing with Drift’s ability to make good decisions, even though he couldn’t distinguish what he was doing wrong. He’d have to figure that out after the fact, the hard way.

Ratchet was really not going to like it when he found out what was happening to him. Ultra Magnus was not going to like it either, and Whirl was not going to like what would happen when Ultra Magnus found out. The voice of reason told Drift he should pick up his comm link and call Ultra Magnus right now.

…Though Ultra Magnus would not like hearing about the Syk in Drift’s systems either. Drift was pretty sure it violated at least three sections of the Tyrest Accord. Drift was also sure Ultra Magnus wouldn’t care how it got into his systems; the Enforcer was just itching for an excuse to arrest Drift first and ask questions later. Drift did not feel like spending time in the brig, not tonight when he had an armful of drowsy Chief Medical Officer snuggled up to him.

He should comm Rodimus. Rodimus would be more understanding about Drift and Ratchet inadvertently trashed on Syk. And comming Rodimus was exactly what Drift would do.

In the morning.

Drift looked down at Ratchet and wound his other hand around the medic’s. The choice between Rodimus and Ratchet was no choice at all. Rodimus could wait.

Right now, Ratchet was not looking too great. It was a small dose, far too small to warrant a systems flush, but it was hitting Ratchet significantly harder than Drift. Drift supposed he still had most of his old resistance to the stuff, and he’d lay money that Ratchet was a first time user. 

First trips were rough. Ratchet could use some help. It was going to be nice, Drift mused as his thoughts began to float along on the effects of the drug, for him to be the one looking after Ratchet for a change.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...and that takes us to the start of Forgiven :)


End file.
